Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09MGKG9805V3C78TR1M8Z9

The bell over Millie’s bakery door gave its cheerful little jingle just as the rain started tapping the front windows. Warm air rushed out, carrying cinnamon, butter, and the faintest hint of coffee. “Well,” said one of the customers, peering at the pastry case, “if I die of indecision, you’ll need to put it on a peach tart.” “I’d call that a noble end,” came the reply from behind the counter. “I’m serious. Why do your scones always look like they know a secret?” “Because they do.” The customer laughed, then leaned closer. “Speaking of secrets, Mrs. Dalloway says the old Whitcomb place is being emptied out tonight.” “Old Whitcomb place has been empty for years.” “Not empty-empty. Boxes. Men. Flashlights.” Millie paused with a tray of thumbprint cookies in her hands. “Flashlights?” “That’s what I heard.” A tiny wrinkle appeared between Millie’s brows. “From Mrs. Dalloway?” “From Mrs. Dalloway, who heard it from the postman, who heard it from someone at town hall. So it’s practically official.” Outside, thunder muttered over Main Street. Inside, the bakery hummed softly, but the air had shifted, as if the rain had brought more than weather. Millie set down the tray. “Take the peach tart.” “Thought you’d say that.” “And if you happen to pass the Whitcomb place later—” “I’ll mind my own business?” Millie smiled. “No. You’ll tell me what you see.”